


Verbal Sabotage

by larkingstock



Series: prompt nonsense [3]
Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M, Femdom (light), Prompt Fic, dean's not-much-more-secret sub streak, lorelai's not-so-hidden femdom streak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 11:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13589526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkingstock/pseuds/larkingstock
Summary: Dean would like to know if there's anything else he can do for Lorelai.





	Verbal Sabotage

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: **first times**
> 
>  
> 
> The prompt nonsense series: the ongoing travails of one anon's quest to reacquire their errant writing mojo, with no guarantee of consistency, continuity, compliancy, or character appreciation.

Dean, thinks Lorelai, is so handy. So helpful. So attentive. So biddable. So bright and young and _eager_. Also, there is the tallness, and the shoulders. And the dimples. All in all, an excellent boyfriend for Rory. Lorelai approves mightily of Dean. As a boyfriend. For Rory.

Lorelai also approves mightily of the way Dean has come over for each the last three days, tackling task after task around the house, even though Rory is away for the week. Some ridiculous college newspaper thing; Paris was involved (Paris was practically hyperventilating) and Lorelai had stopped listening out of self-defense. But while Lorelai's daughter is off adventuring with someone whose fixation on her is hopefully just a Type A personality with a crush and not a serial killer with an obsession, Lorelai's daughter's boyfriend currently is up to his ears in her plumbing. That is, Lorelai's plumbing. That is, Lorelai's kitchen sink plumbing, which has been...spurting.

Somewhere along the line, Lorelai's very innocent and harmless approval of Dean's shoulders, bent down rummaging handily amongst her cupboards, has strayed into innuendo, and Lorelai is having some trouble reversing out of it. Also, when did Dean start filling out so nicely? He used to be gangly. Teenager-ish. Not young-man-ish with an option to star in Mrs Robinson fantasies.

...Whoa, yeah, okay, it's time to stop finding things for him to do around their house. No matter how hopefully he looks at her, like a puppy begging to be thrown something to fetch for her, just to show how well he can do it--or how very kindly she has bestowed on him the benefit of her near-preternatural giftedness at telling people what to do. She is firm on this. He is going to look up at her, still crouching down on his knees, like he has the last three nights, and ask in that deepening voice, "Is there anything else I can do?" and this time she is going to look down into his bright eyes and open, sweet smile and say, "Nope, don't think so. You done good, kid. Thanks."

He pulls his head out, puts the wrench down, and turns. The wingspan of his shoulder barely misses clipping her thigh. The mussed shag of his bangs covers his eyes as his head raises slowly, but she can still feel his gaze lingering, traveling up her body where she's been leaning against the fridge to give directions and running witty commentary on his work. This self-appointed supervisory position is the closest she's stood to him like this. This self-appointed supervisory position, she realizes, was a mistake.

Dean leans back on his heels, his gaze finding hers above her folded arms. His bright eyes have gone hot. His open, sweet smile has gone _hungry_. His deepening voice has gone throaty and slow when he asks, softly, "Anything else I can do for you, Lorelai?"

"Damn, I dunno, kid, how are you at giving head while you're down there?" is the first, dumb, and deliberately mortifying thing that comes out of Lorelai's sarcastic mouth because _holy shit_ , she needs to blow this up, permanently, right the hell now, and verbal sabotage is one of her best things. For the record, this idiotic effort will not be counting towards it being one of her best things because that would seriously mess up her average, but she'd panicked.

He hasn't moved and Lorelai's panic kicks it up to a personal DEFCON 1, especially when she sees the flush tinge his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His mouth has opened slightly. His lips are moist.

"Joke, kid, c'mon!" she backpedals, verbally and literally, and somehow she's hustling her daughter's boyfriend and his shoulders and his dimples and his eagerness to please out the door with some kind of _Everything's under control. Situation normal!!! Had a slight dirty old lady libido malfunction, but everything's perfectly all right now, we're fine, we're all fine here now, thank you. How are you?_ babble at her highest speeds. She refuses to look at his face to see if he's even trying to translate it, or if he's sufficiently horrified to never talk or look at her again, which would be the reasonable reaction and also the vastly preferable one.

The next day is an absolute, absolute, absolute shit of a day at the Inn and it's almost enough to put the incident out of her mind. She is aiding the situation with a glass of wine, slumped on the couch and generally feeling miserable about her life, when she hears a knock at the door.

It's around the time Dean usually shows up on her step, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but there is no way on the planet it could be him tonight. Which explains why she quite reasonably goes into shock when she opens her door and Dean looks down at her from his ridiculously great height, shoulders hunched just a little forward, his mouth set, looming and intense.

It does not explain why her mouth goes dry.

Seconds have ticked by and it's way past the point she should have said something. Her mouth is open, clearly of the same opinion and ready to go whenever she is, but the problem is, she cannot think of a single word right now. Dean is standing on her doorstep after she joked (it wasn't a joke) (shut _up_ ) about having him eat her out.

Dean is standing on her doorstep and his eyes have fallen to her open, silent mouth and _his_ mouth has gone from grimly determined to a tiny, tiny grin, a little devious and a little crooked and still kind of a lot determined, and if Lorelai could spare a thought for hyperventilating Paris right now, or even remember she existed, she would feel a rare stroke of sympathy. Because Dean Forester has just realized he's rendered Lorelai Gilmore speechless.

No.

No, no.

This is not happening. This whole thing, all of it, is _not happening_. Lorelai knows it is not happening, because she has decided it is not happening. And when Lorelai Gilmore decides something is, or is not, happening, then that thing is a thing that does or does not happen.

...She might have downed that glass of wine a little fast.

In further evidence of it not happening, Lorelai scowls, whirls on her heel and stalks away to fling herself firmly back down on the couch of life misery. In rather less evidence of it not happening, a suitably chastened Dean does not turn around and vacate the premises, never to mention this ever ever ever again. Instead, a too-aware and unsuitably sexy Dean closes the door behind himself and crosses to where she is glaring mulishly at her empty wine glass. Too-aware and unsuitably sexy Dean did not, apparently, get CC'd on the memo about this all not happening.

And then he crouches down in front of her.

Lorelai turns her glare from her glass to him with the power of a thousand supernovas, because if she doesn't, he might notice that not only has he stolen her voice, he's stolen her _breath_.

And damn if the boy--he is a boy, he is a _boy_ , he isn't a gorgeous young man putting himself so readily at her feet--doesn't just smirk. The full-on Gilmore Glare right to the face and he _smirks_. Oh, no. _No_ no. Of all the things that are currently not happening, that is right at the top of the damn list.

Her mouth drops open again, ready to tear blistering strips off him, when Dean beats her to the punch.

"Bad day?" he asks, sympathetically, but with enough of that amusement to make her blood run a couple degrees hotter.

With anger, obviously. How dare he? How dare this damn _kid_ have developed an immunity to the Gilmore Glare? How dare he know her pattern after a bad day at work? How dare he have learned how to decode her panicked yammering? How dare he turn up here with his kindness and sweetness thinking he needed to _fix_ things? How dare he kneel down before her like he's offering himself up and push every damn button she has by asking what he can do for her? How dare he do all of that and be so utterly, completely, _totally off limits_?

She can only continue glaring in answer, because she's terrified of what lunatic thing she might do if she stops. The same reasoning is behind her not moving a muscle when he reaches out and gently plucks the glass from her fingers, setting it aside on the coffee table.

He hasn't touched her. He hasn't touched her and he's kneeling in front of her, and the breath he draws is slightly too shaky-deep before he says, deliberately, "Is there anything I can do."

He's nervous. Dean's _nervous_ , and it's like a spell breaking, along with her heart, a little bit. "Oh--" she starts, too quickly, only just stopping herself from taking his face, cupping it. "Dean," she says, more tightly. "We. We _can't_."

Dean is still looking at her, and it's like he's not quite comprehending. " _Rory_ ," she prompts, a far deeper anger rising and then jumping sharply when the kid _snorts_.

"Rory," he says, calmly and totally matter-of-factly, "is cheating on me."

Lorelai has been reduced to all too few reactions to events this evening and she's far from happy about it, but overwhelming silent shock is really the only possible response to this. "What?" she asks, faintly, wondering if she can try for some reasonable-strength denial. "She--Dean, she wouldn't...She. I. Dean." She takes a deep, deep breath. "How can you even think that? She hardly even looks at other guys. Dean. She _wouldn't_ \--"

He's watching this with an expression that makes her feel uncomfortably young. Like he's weirdly somehow older than Lorelai is. "Rory," he says, slower, like he's clarifying, "is cheating on me right now."

Lorelai's still shaking her head. "But, _who_ \--"

That's what it is. He's looking at her like he's waiting for her to get it. "One guess," he says, intently, and it breaks over her like a slow dawn.

Lorelai stares back at him. "But."

Dean's mouth quirks.

Lorelai's not done. " _But_." Dean nods slightly in agreement, amusement running behind his eyes. Which raises a whole host of other questions. "Are--are you sure?" she starts with, still faintly.

"Yes."

Okay, he's sure. She studies him. "How come you're not upset?"

God, that little thoughtful smile is sexy, and oh, _God_ , focus. "I wondered that myself." The smile he's giving her, unfortunately, quirks up a little more. "I guess I've had time to get used to it."

This is far from the full answer, and oh holy crap, he's had time to get used to it. He's kept coming around and coming around and he's used to it, so, what, how, God, _focus_. "Okay, but historically, you have not so much dealt with jealousy well." No matter how long he's had to get used to it.

He shrugs, conceding the point. "No, I haven't. Current theory, shameful as it is, is I might be caveman enough that...it makes it different."

Lorelai swallows and tells herself: do not look at his arms. They are tanned and muscled and curve up into the short sleeves of his t-shirt like what they really should be doing is running gloriously free in one of those spotted caveman minis. Tunics. Whatever they're called. She swallows again and wrenches her eyes away, back up to his face, and that might have been a bad move.

"Oh," she says. She doesn't say anything else because she's pretty sure that's still far from the full answer, and she's pretty sure there is no way to put the full question into words she will be able to get out of her mouth right now.

Dean's smile is growing again, oh. _God_. "That's it? 'Oh'?"

"I could say the same to you," she snaps. And watches, mesmerized, the flash of his white animal teeth as his smile breaks wide.

Dean glances off at the wine glass, then back at her. "Today's been rough on you, Lorelai." He's looking at her, and he's putting his big, tanned, capable hands on either side of her. She can feel the dipping of the cushion away from her thighs as he presses it down, firmly, with his hands that lead to his long, strong arms that go all the way up to his shoulders. His broad, strapping shoulders that he keeps finding ways to put in front of her and bow just deferentially enough to take her breath away. "So I'm going to ask you again." He pauses, long enough to hear her breathing hitch. "Is there anything you want me to do for you?"

Yes. Yes, yes. God, _yes_.

Lorelai opens her mouth, and has a horrible thought. "Wait--you didn't--with--"

Dean shakes his head immediately. "I've never done this before." He doesn't seem nervous anymore; in fact, it seems like his eyes on hers only get hotter. "You're going to have to tell me what to do."

His mouth is wet. He has licked his lips. Paul Anka's all-consuming desperation for snausages has never in that dog's life matched the hunger of Dean Forester's wet mouth as he licks his lips and tells her to tell him how to go down on her.

Lorelai's spine has straightened, drawing-room perfect posture, all on its own. And it's the most natural thing in the world that she lean forward. Just a little. Just enough. Just to the exact point where Dean's face has to tilt, well and truly looking up at her.

His throat tips, long and bare. Exposed to her. And-- _oh_.

The thing to understand is, Emily rules her domain with an iron fist that would be the envy of any tyrant and Rory has had everyone who ever saw her wrapped around her cute little finger since she was two years old--and they're the _good_ Gilmores. _Lorelai_ is the bad one. She's the black sheep, the unwed teen mom, flagrantly conducting a life of shame and scandal and, even worse, defiant success. The one who scribbles outside all of the neat little lines with gauche and garish colors, rattles every bar, sets off explosions just for the crying _need_ of it.

And somehow Dean has found out how to unlock all those different parts of her and fit them together in a seamless whole, a glossy completed jigsaw puzzle she had been sure was missing half its pieces. Who knew all that she needed was this beautiful boy--this gorgeous young man--kneeling down and looking up at her with unconditional surrender in his eyes?

"It takes work," she says, playfully stern, 100% not joking. Dean sucks in his breath, unable to look away from her face. "You're going to need to apply yourself to this, Dean." She's considering making it crystal clear this isn't going to be reciprocal, but looking at him, he already knows. But she can feel the cushion bunching with how his hands are tightening on it, and she wants to see. She leans a little more forward, looks commandingly down into his eyes, and says, "This goes only one way. You giving me what I want."

His hands have nearly become fists and his eyes slide closed. Lorelai's not sure but he might have swallowed an actual moan.

Lorelai wants that moan. That is _her moan_. It's without any conscious thought that she curves her fingers at the little notch at the base of his throat and strokes up, taking possession of that vulnerable arch, pulling her moan back up and out from him.

Dean's eyes fly open as he gives it to her, staring up as she cups him right where his throat gives way to his jaw, and Lorelai knows exactly why Dean is not upset at losing Rory. Dean does not _belong_ to Rory. And he knows it.


End file.
